east of the sun
by Hiemal
Summary: He'll only watch for a minute. ჯ Aziraphale/Crowley


**east of the sun**

He'll only watch for a minute.

After all, he has work to do in his apartment. During his absence, a rather unnerving amount of plants decided to slack off, and he figures it would be wisest to locate the rusty shears in his closet as soon as possible.

And yet he can't bring himself to pass by, so tantalizingly close, without at least getting a glimpse of Aziraphale.

The door to the bookshop is open, and Crowley leans slightly against it without jarring the bell. Aziraphale is sitting at his desk with his hair pulled back, glasses sliding down his nose in a skewed angle. It looks like he's been at work for quite sometime; his features are hardened with concentration as he stares down at the book open in front of him.

God, he's pretty.

Crowley wonders sometimes if he scares Aziraphale, at least a bit. It wouldn't be especially surprising, he supposes – he's been in love with man, desperately so, for over a millennia now, without the faintest hope of reciprocation. To be on the receiving end of that would be certainly unsettling, and Crowley doesn't know how he can possibly justify to anyone how _right_ his feelings for his dual opposite are. He likes to think sometimes that they are soulmates, destined to be, and that's why he clings to Aziraphale without the faintest reason to. It's a maudlin, ridiculous idea, yes, but he sometimes grows tired of logic.

Aziraphale sighs, apparently exasperated, and slams the book closed.

"I'm never gonna figure this out," he informs the book cover. "I'm not as good at this as Crowley."

Crowley starts, surprised at hearing his name.

Aziraphale looks up, eyes cotton-soft and bright. "Oh! I knew I felt you close by!"

Wonderful. "Having trouble?" Crowley asks, hoping he sounds more nonchalant than he feels.

Aziraphale stands up and walks over to him. "Yeah, a little, but I think I'm just gonna give it a rest for awhile. It's not that important. Besides," the angel adds brightly, and gives him a quick hug, "you're back, old chap!"

His hair smells like flowers.

"Yes," Crowley says, awkwardly placing his hand on the small of Aziraphale's back for a moment. "My flight got in this morning."

Aziraphale smiles radiantly up at him and takes one of his hands, squeezing it gently twice, before pulling away. "How was France? Heard the rainy season was awful, but you've always been fond of dreary weather. Of course, the sun probably allows you to wreck more havoc on people without messing up your hair…" Aziraphale paused. "I'll stop talking now. Promise." He smiles again, and Crowley wants to kiss that mouth till it bleeds.

"France was all right."

"How are your newest victims?" Aziraphale asks, because he's always been fond of knowing Crowley's business.

It's hard to look at Aziraphale when he asks things like this; it makes Crowley feel bad, and he hasn't felt that way since the first woman had to give birth eons ago.

"The same as always," he replies in a clipped tone, and can't quite look Aziraphale in the eyes when he says it.

"Oh," the blond says. "Jolly good then!"

Crowley looks up only to see his counter staring at him sadly. God. He's making the man miserable, and they've only been speaking for thirty seconds.

_Soulmates indeed,_ Crowley thinks wryly.

"I'm sorry," he says, and walks quickly over to Aziraphale's desk, picking up the book. It's an older volume, providing translations for rare ancient languages. "Now, what were you working on-"

"Thank you," Aziraphale cuts in softly.

He looks up at the blond questioningly, and his mind goes blank. He doesn't know what Aziraphale is thinking, and doesn't have the slightest idea what to say.

"For caring about me," the angel explains. His voice is quiet. "I know you do. So don't try to lie, you sly serpent. No one else cares the way you do."

"Nonsense," Crowley interrupts, knowing he can't let Aziraphale keep talking. Every word he says makes Crowley fall more in love, and he knows somehow that if Aziraphale finishes, he'll never be able to let him go.

"You have Gabriel, Micheal– even some demons have taken a liking to you."

Aziraphale laughs a little, and Crowley contemplates even voicing his next thought for a moment before it slips from his mouth without his consent. "And God is forever on your side, so. Yeah."

He hates God, and knows that he shouldn't. It's ridiculous and immature and petty, and yet he can't help it. He's the one who has loved Aziraphale singularly for years, and yet God will always trump him, trump _everyone, _the damn bastard.

"I... I guess that's true," Aziraphale says, looking uncomfortable. "But... "

A maddening silence hangs in the air.

"Yes?" Crowley finally asks.

"You make me feel safe," Aziraphale says, and looks a little bit embarrassed. He anxiously wrings his hands and stares at the wall to the left of him. "I know you'd do anything for me, and ..."

Crowley knows that he should leave, but he can't even look away.

Aziraphale shifts his gaze to the floor. "Crowley," he says, and his voice is almost a whisper, "I know that you're in love with me."

"Er. Oh," he says. It's all he can possibly think of to say; how the hell else is he supposed to respond to that?

Maybe he isn't supposed to.

Awkwardly, Aziraphale looks up at him. "I ...you know, I wouldn't want it to be anybody else."

And for the first time in so long, Crowley's able to hope. He remembers things – little, silly things that have happened over the years. Casually leaning toward Aziraphale when he first became lost in the text o_f Harry Potte_ry; roughly shoving a jacket to shield the angel from the cold; basking on benches during the summertime.

"I'm glad," he says simply, and finds himself nearly grinning.

Aziraphale looks relieved as he smiles back, and then walks over to him. "Anyway, so, this book. You see, I have these new clients who got sent this letter that's apparently threatening, only it's written in some indecipherable language, and I can't quite figure it out. It looks a little like this one, here ..."

Aziraphale absently adjusts his glasses and takes the book from Crowley's hands. As he does, their hands brush.

Just barely.

* * *

notes: dedicated to vennumberten, because she's ever so sweet and I'm jealous of her writing style.

also...oh gosh. this is my first foray into the Good Omens fandom and I am terribly nervous.

reviews and the like are very much appreciated.

over and out

Hiemal


End file.
